As soon as cans had been invented Can openers appeared,
A new blade on pocket knives Hooked like a talon
To pierce through thin metal Leaving jagged teeth.
Now we had a tool to release Canned laughter,
We could open a can of worms Any time we wanted,
Pack ourselves in like sardines, Insult tin-can cars,
Kick the can down the road, It was wonderful
While it lasted, the sheer pleasure Of opening tuna
To mix with tangy mayonnaise! The joy of condensed soup
Like Andy Warhol ate Every day for twenty years,
So salty, red and good He silkscreened cans on canvas!
It doesn’t amount to a can of beans Anymore, of course,
We’ve moved on to sous vide Postmodernist cuisine
But back then Spam-in-a-Can Meant sending a man to the moon and back again.
Amy Brunvand is a librarian in Salt Lake City Utah at the eastern edge of the Great Basin. She writes regularly for Catalyst Magazine, mostly about environmental issues or dancing, and reviews books for 15-Bytes: Utah’s Art Magazine. Her recent poetry appears in Journal of Wild Culture, saltfront, Kudzu House Quarterly, Dark Mountain, Canyon Country Zephyr, and Boneshaker: A Bicycling Almanac.